Deceit: A Story of Masks
by Alemantele
Summary: Beautiful, pale, etheral. The Cullens are amazing beyond compare. But what secrets lie in the shadowly pasts of each member, what demons lurk just beneath the surface? In a family of vampires, is anything ever what it seems? Slight AU.
1. The Mask

**Deceit: A Story of Masks**

**Part I - Masks**

**Summary**: She's always changing, shifting, trying to find a way for everyone to love her. If there's something off about her, she makes sure to hide it, conceal it until it's not there and show a side that everyone can love. Will love. She makes sure every day that the desperation doesn't leak out of her eyes and turn them black with fear. ~ A story of shadows and masks and how someone doesn't really get over betrayal from the love of their life.

**A/N:** Okay, okay, so I watched Breaking Dawn (Part 1) and I totally got sucked back into the world of Twilight. Haven't been here in a while now, in fact, I deleted those awful stories I wrote at first for this fandom.

A darker look at Twilight, trying to get past all the fluffy true love. Something that relaly bugged me when I read New Moon was how easily Bella forgave Edward. He left her just like that and she doesn't even question the fact that he might still be lying to her? So I decided to plan another foray into the Twilight fandom. Hope you enjoy!

**Edit: So I got hit with this brilliant idea for an EPOV version of this and it just kind of expanded to encompass the Cullens in general so I'm going to be adding on to this concept. **

OO**oo**OO**oo**OO**oo**OO**oo**

When their eyes first met she'd never have thought that he'd one day be her love, her life and her everything. When she first looked into those coal blacked eyes, filled with hatred and suppressed _hunger_ she'd felt afraid. It was only when she had first seen him in that meadow that she knew that she was in love. It was then that she had first felt that terrifying fear that she wasn't good enough for him.

Of course, she'd had heard rumors before. She had even seen that ethereal beauty with her own two eyes. But never had she thought he'd so something so enthralling, so supernatural. She felt that crippling fear then. He was so perfect, so wonderful and she was… nobody.

That fear went away after a while. She had been lost in his wonderful liquid topaz eyes. She had been lost in the whispered reassurances in her ear. She had been lost in the soft "_I love you_"s.

For a while, she truly felt like she fit in. She had truly felt like part of something bigger than herself. She remembered the blissful feeling in her heart everyday as she drove to the secluded mansion in the woods, or when she held hands with him in the hallway, or ever when she had sat with his family and laughed about mundane things at lunch. She never felt that way before. In a school of well over 2000 people she had never been anything special.

She could laugh now. How she longed for that safe blanket of security again. How she wished there was no constant agony, eating away at her soul.

_Bella Swan is nobody special, and she'd never be_.

So she makes an effort to be interesting.

Because that day, when he led her into the woods and told her that he didn't want her, that he didn't love her, she died. She felt his promise shattering into pieces. She felt his love die. It never faded away like the soft glow of the sun at twilight, instead it fell like a marionette with its strings cut, leaving her dark and alone and cold in the night without even the moon to guide her way.

That's how she felt for a long time. That the night sky was so dark and lonesome and that she didn't have anything tying her to the Earth any longer. She could just jump and lose herself forever. But she restrained, because she still had people loving her. Still, she felt like she was dying, she felt her fingers slowly grow cold. The feeling was foreign, strange. Before he had left she felt like she could climb a mountain, scale a cliff; after, she felt like she had climbed that mountain only to be left behind in the snow, slowly freezing to death. She had shivered and breathed the freezing air.

She felt like she could shatter into so many pieces, like she could melt away if left alone. Like a statue, so cold and alone and numb and still and _dead_. And it was so dark all the time she didn't know if she would ever warm up.

She had no moon and for the time being, she had no sun.

Not until the sun had risen from the mountains that caged it.

And she loved her sun in his own way. With his sunny smiles and his warm embrace she felt warm again. But there was still that constant fear, that constant ache. She kept herself from being reassured this time, because she knew that _Bella Swan wasn't anybody_.

She kept herself reserved. Though she had longed for someone to answer her calls since the cold settle in, when that someone came, she didn't allow herself to love him as he loved her. She could feel the love from him and she could feel the aching disappointment. But she didn't cave and she didn't let herself make him happy. She knew it wasn't fair, she knew she was depriving him of the comfort he had offered her. But she couldn't bring herself to see the possibilities beneath the surface, not when it had ended in such disaster last time she had.

Still, she loved their quiet afternoons spent together. Hanging around in his garage, laughing. Even talking about Sam Uley's "gang" and how his long-time friend had been 'corrupted' was a welcome change from her constant numbness. Even the awkward movie with Mike that night was better. Of course, that had been the calm before the storm, because it was that exact night that her quiet little dream shattered.

It didn't come as a surprise really, when he left her too.

And it was twilight again. When she wasn't quite sure if her sun would come back and she wasn't quite sure if he would leave and stay away.

It hurt less though; it always hurt less when it was expected.

It had, however, come as a surprise when both her sun and her moon came back. Both of them swearing they loved her. She embraced her moon with open arms and slowly pushed her sun away. Darkness had been all she had known and she missed the soft glow of a full moon so much she could cry.

But when the thrall of being loved again and the joy of reunion wore off, she hesitated. His soft whispers were the same as before. His "_I love you"_s the same. There was no detectable change and she felt the breath leave her as she realized the implications.

_He was going to leave again_.

Was she merely a toy he played with? Did he tire of her and leave only to crave amusement and return? Was his love merely a façade he hid his true intentions behind?

_Bella Swan was a nobody_.

And she'd always be.

But it came to her as an epiphany one day. Because maybe Bella Swan wouldn't ever be anybody but Bella Cullen could.

So she pretended and loved him behind a curtain of fear. She felt the everlasting ache inside her heart that had never faded. Instead, it was a constant reminder of her worries. It made her second guess his intentions. It made her fear. The paralyzing fear that _he didn't want her_ coursed through her veins with each breath she took. It made her weak with pain at times and cripple and helpless and lonely and _dead_.

So she hid behind her own façade. She pretended to be comforted. Pretended to forgive and forget and love him like she always had. And she pushed away her sun and felt her moon gravitate towards her with a graceful beauty only he could pull off.

And even now, when she was perfection beyond imagination, even now when she finally felt she was on the same page as her beautiful moon she felt that fear. Because what if she still wasn't good enough? What if he left her again to be with Tanya, who was a vampire longer and was more beautiful than she could ever be? Tanya who loved him. Tanya who was such a better choice for him, without her petty flaws or her emptiness inside. What if he saw through her act and decided that he never wanted her in the first place? That she truly was just a toy?

Even worse was the nagging thought that he wanted her because she was a human. The crushing thought that he loved her because she was different. Now that she was the same as him, all cold and pale and monstrous and _dead_, maybe he didn't want her anymore. He had been so vehement in the fact that she remained human. He had seemed genuine when she was human.

Her chocolate brown eyes were forever gone. He had always said he loved her eyes. And now they were gone and replaced with his own liquid topaz. His own honey gold.

Maybe as a cold and beautiful goddess, she wasn't good enough in her perfection.

She shivers now, even though she'll not feel cold again. She shivers even though she'll never feel the warm rays of the sun and has nothing to compare to her constant numbness.

She's numb again, she realizes. There's no love in her true gaze anymore, only longing and the desire to _be_ loved. There's no adoration in her heart, only desperation and fear. What once enthralled and dazzled her to no end now is the norm, a constant. She feels her eyes prickle and is hit with the realization that the tears would never fall, could never fall. There's no joy in her anymore, everything she loved and could love sapped away the moment he said those fatal words.

"I don't want you anymore."

She hears the words in her mind, every second, every minute, every day. Forever would they reverberate in her empty mind. She feels relief at the fact that he couldn't hear her mind. What would he think of her if he could see? He'd leave in a heartbeat (well, metaphorically, her heart would never beat again).

She closes her suddenly onyx eyes and shudders.

But she hears her family calling. And she quickly presses her mask to her face, concealing her turmoil that lies beneath the surface (rolling, rolling and forever clashing). When she checks her reflection, her eyes are soft amber. They look benign and happy and joyful. They look like everything she is not.

So she rises and turns to face her next day. And the next and the next. She's prepared to fight her way through forever; after all, it's what she's always wanted, right?

As she melts into the embrace of her lover, she smiles at her family and presses soft kisses to her daughter's forehead. Because they won't know. She wouldn't reveal the startling emptiness inside her soul.

She longs for the times when she was naïve and young and still believed in humanity. But that's far away and could never be obtained again. So she lies and tricks and deceives her oblivious lover. And she holds out a cheery mask for the world to see.

She's always changing, shifting, trying to find a way for everyone to love her. If there's something off about her, she makes sure to hide it, conceal it until it's not there and show a side that everyone can love. Will love. She makes sure every day that the desperation doesn't leak out of her eyes and turn them black with fear.

Still, she feels pity for the unsuspecting moon that encircles her. Always so close, yet so far away from her true self. But she doesn't regret her decisions on how to face life, she can't. Otherwise everything would be even more meaningless than it is now.

She doesn't quite feel the numbness now, and that in itself is a relief.

Idly, she wonders what it was like for Edward to love her.

She wonders what it was like for him to be loving a lie.

OO**oo**OO**oo**OO**oo**OO**oo**

**So? How was it? Terrible? Brilliant? Creepy? I'd love it if you popped by and left me a little review. :D**

**Hopefully, my little dip into the Twilight fandom doens't end in disaster like the last time. (I'm still cringing at those terrible stories). Who knows, I might get inspired and write some more. **

**Ciao~ Ale**


	2. The Monster

**Deceit: A Story of Masks**

**Part II - The Monster**

**Summary: **"He could get lost that way. In the happiness. He could get lost seeing things that just aren't there anymore." ~ Edward needs Bella. He needs her and protects her and she helps keep him sane. But in the end, does he really love her? "Damn his midnight sun. Damn her blistering heat and sweltering gaze. Damn it all."

**A/N:** When I first set out to write that oneshot, I never believed I would be continuing it. But of course, true inspiration comes from all places and I just got hit right over the head with this one. So I was checking over "Masks" (Bella's Story) and then I just thought, what if she's right about Edward? What if he _didn't_ love her?

And then voila, this messed up version of EPOV was born.

It's hard to comprehend near the end. And the explanation's at the bottom. Don't want to give away the premise of this one. ;)

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Imagine a world where everything is so bright and shining and filled with colour. Imagine a world where everything is so clear and unforgettable. That's his world. That's the world he's cursed to live in; forever. He closes his eyes and he finds that it doesn't make a difference. Eyes open or closed, the world is still bright, the colours still not dimmed. He scoffs then, what does it matter, light, colour, brilliance, all of it was meaningless. The world was dark to him.

He remembered a time when the world still held meaning in his eyes, when he was human and naïve and young and not _dead_. It's ironic; that when the world was most dimmed and seemed the darkest was the time when he felt it really shone.

And for the longest time, his world had been a constant midnight sky. No stars or moon hung in his line of sight. He had felt the crushing darkness and cold suffocating him (breath in, breath out; even though he didn't really need to breathe at all), binding him, trapping him in its eternal frost. The world seemed pointless. Who was he, to intrude in the midst of things? Who was he to disrupt the natural order of things? He was unnatural, shouldn't exist. He didn't deserve to stay in this world.

What he wouldn't give to have his existence end. None of the others understood. Only Carlisle alone could see his inner turmoil.

But he wouldn't give into temptations, not when he had people to please and family who loved him.

So on and on and on and on went forever. It never was what he wanted. Every day a tandem, every day the same thing over and over and over (and he was suffocating again under it all) until he couldn't take it anymore.

But that was when it happened, when a sudden shooting star ran across the sky, lighting up his vision. A light in the darkness. A light to guide him. His midnight sun.

It wasn't always like that. Like anything love grew slowly and surely until it burst. He remembered seeing her, _smelling her_. He remembered the sweet smell of her blood and feeling his eyes bleed black ink and seeing her suck a breath in and holding his breath (suffocating) and clutching the desk and the _hunger_ exploding within him. And how she looked at him. Eyes wide with suppressed fear.

She caught his attention, sucked him in with her stubbornly blocked mind.

And from then on, everything changed. It was like his dark world shattered, leaving the onyx shards of fear and hatred and cold and _death_ scattered all over the tree tops. His world was bright again and his midnight sun lit it all up with a light so dazzling he could barely see through her perfection. He basked in the glow, basked in the warmth. _You are my sun_.

He had never felt such a warmth and he clung desperately to the midnight sun. Clung like she was the only thing in the world that mattered to him and that he _loved_ her so desperately it hurt.

He had always believed that. He had always believed that what he felt was love. He had always believed that what he felt was sincere. Because he had been burning. If he still had a heart that could beat it'd speed up whenever she got near. If he had blood that still ran through his veins it'd rise to flush his cheeks whenever she looked into his eyes. And he was burning for her love and devotion and desire.

So he told himself that he loved her, and he had believed it. He felt a desperate need to protect her, to shield her. Because if she was gone, what would that make him?

And as he whispered sweet nothings in her ear and toyed with her hair, he remembered that. And it was true; he knew it had been true. Because why else would he feel such a blinding rage at the hunter that dared to steal her away? Why would he feel so cold at the thought of her leaving? And he remembered as he slammed the hunter into the glass of the ballet studio only one thought was coursing through his mind and it froze him and left him bereft and bare and she was_ "mine_".

Seeing her so broken on the hospital bed would've made her weep if he could. Because she was his midnight sun and he couldn't keep the only light in his life _safe_.

That was why he had left, he'd tell himself afterwards. He left because he loved her and needed to protect her. He hadn't left because the heat was dying. He hadn't left because he finally knew what it was like to be out of the cold and realized that he never was burning for her.

It was in those lonely months that he came to realize the truth. And the truth hurt. Because he never loved her the way he thought he did. He didn't care about Bella Swan or who she really was or what she ever thought of him. _Bella Swan was nobody. _No, he cared because he _needed_ her. He didn't want to slip back into the dark cold and feel so pale and hard and soulless and _dead_. He clung to her because she was something to cling to.

Because she was _his_ and his alone and nobody else could have her.

And god dammit if she was going to die! Because he was going with her. And he _needed_ and craved that sweet smell, that sweet burn and the deep scars that she left behind. If his skin could burn it'd be blistering at her touch, her kiss, her _look_. She riddled him with so many holes and left him so hot and thirsty.

He felt ready to die. He had been ready to die for years and years on end. But he finally had a reason to.

Damn his midnight sun. Damn her blistering heat and sweltering gaze. Damn it all.

He had closed his eyes and got ready to step forward when – she came back.

Did she really love him then? Enough to return from the supposed death and find him all the way in enemy lands and rescue him? Just because she loved him?

He had never felt guilty before. At least, not guilt as strong as this, strong enough to tear him apart and burn him into ashes. If she loved him so much, if she went through so much just for him… well then what did that make him?

Maybe it would have been better if he stayed away. Maybe it would have been better if he died and never saw her again and she didn't have to look into his eyes and say with sincerity that she loved him.

From then on, every kiss seared him. Not in a good way. Never in a good way. Every kiss she gave branded him with the mark of guilt and shame. (And he was suffocating all over again except this time it was because of her love and desire and devotion) Shame and humiliation and every emotion in between. He never really knew what to feel about her any more.

He never loved her. Never.

That much was for certain.

Not love but something else. Desire. Need. Hunger. Thirst.

So he stayed with her and gave in to her demands. All the while putting on a façade of being vaguely human. Hiding who he really was. Hiding the monster deep within. And the longer he stayed by her side, the faster and more volatile his addictions grew. He couldn't last without her. He wouldn't withstand the cold again.

So he had protested against her decision to become one of them.

If she was cold too, who would be there to keep him warm? If she was a cold and pale and flawless monster and _dead_, who would be there to guide him away? What would constrain him from massacre, what would hold back his inner demons? No, his midnight sun had to stay human and she had to stay _just the way she always was_.

But of course, she couldn't know that was how he felt.

So he lied and cheated and deceived her from his true intentions.

The only problem was he hadn't realized the stubborn will of his midnight sun. And he never realized the fact that she wanted it so bad she was willing to do anything. He gave into her wills compromised with her. Only because he didn't want to lose her. He wanted to keep her happy and warm so she could take away the cold every second of every day.

Things got worse from there and he realized that he was falling into a trap he couldn't get out of. _Didn't want to_ get out of.

She's not so bad as a monster. Graceful and beautiful as the rising sun. And it's not as cold as he thought it would be. She's far warmer than any monster he's ever met. He doesn't regret his decision, because it was damnation or _death_ for her. And damn it all if she died. Damn it all if she died and he lost his warmth.

She still retains her fiery passion and her hot, searing kisses are still the same. There's less guilt in them though. Her white hot brand has ebbed and faded away until it was merely glowing red. Red as the setting sun. Red as the breaking dawn. Red as her dripping blood.

He can't think straight anymore. The only thoughts in his head are those of others (rolling and tumbling and _suffocating _him) and possessive, desperate; _"mine_". She's his and only his and never anyone else's property. His sun, his goddess, his warmth. _His drug_.

There's not much meaning in life anymore other than the ever searing heat and the guilt and the shame and the cold just a fingertip's brush away that he's tryingtryingtrying to keep at bay and the fact that he's _dead. _

When his midnight sun saunters down the stairs with a bright smile on her pale face and presses soft kisses to his embrace, he _smiles._ Because just like that it's all warm again and she's there with their beautiful daughter in her arms and presses soft kisses to her forehead too and they seem so happy.

He could get lost that way. In the happiness. He could get lost seeing things that just aren't there anymore.

But what's done is done and he couldn't change the past even if he wanted to (not that he did, because finally he wasn't suffocating anymore and he could breath and breath out even though he didn't quite need to).

So he settles on thinking of what could have been and what is.

He wonders sometimes, he wonders what it was like for Bella to love him.

What it was like for her to be loving a monster.

OO**oo**OO**oo**OO**o****o**OO**oo**OO

**A/N:** Some general thematic similarities here. I like that aspect. Anywhoo, the ending was me trying to replicate Edward as a druggie who can't wait to get his next fix. So it's kind of strange because the phrasing is off in some places and it feels messed up in others. Y'know that line in Twilight when Edward refers to Bella was a drug? This is totally what my premise is based on.

Stay tuned for more Cullen madness to come! Review please? Feedback? Is it okay or should I give up on the idea entirely?

Ciao~ Ale


	3. The Goddess

**Deceit: A Story of Masks**

**Part III: The Goddess**

**Summary: "-**she thinks of how she'd snap his neck. Snap his spine. Break his bones. Stomp on his body." Rosalie was a goddess amongst mortals, but what does it take to shatter that perfect mask? "Rose, Rosie baby. _Make me happy_."

**A/N:** And this story's on a roll again. :D So, Rosalie's story is a little cliche but I think you'll enjoy it. It's a little gruesome though, so be warned.

And I was sort of experimenting with a new-ish style so please let me know if it's hard to follow.

* * *

><p>Rosalie Hale is perfection. She is the epitome of beauty. Rosalie Hale never falters, never cracks, never <em>breaks<em>. Because she must be perfect. She has to be. She was the daughter of a rich man, the daughter of a lucky man. Rosalie Hale was the perfect daughter from the perfect family who was going to marry the perfect man.

Rosalie Hale was a beautiful goddess in a world of mortals.

No goddess cared for love. Nor for friendship or other mundane things. No goddess would ever lower herself to settle for a mere mortal.

So Rosalie Hale told herself. To never, ever, break. She could remain as a porcelain goddess, and marry her perfect god and be his queen. She would make her father happy. And her family would stay lucky.

Rosalie Hale was the lucky daughter of a beautiful man and his beautiful family. Rosalie Hale was invincible and unbreakable, unlucky enough to be born amongst mortals. Rosalie Hale was going to become a queen; tall, mighty, and she wouldn't ever falter beside her king.

That was her life.

* * *

><p>Until it shattered.<p>

Until it broke.

Until Rosalie Hale wasn't the beautiful daughter of a rich man. Until Rosalie Hale realized her god was the devil in disguise, dragging her down to _hell_.

Until Rosalie Hale wasn't Rosalie Hale anymore.

* * *

><p>Rosalie Cullen is ugly.<p>

Rosalie Cullen doesn't care for beauty and pretty things because she's no longer the beautiful daughter of a lucky man. Rosalie Cullen is the strange daughter of a hardworking man who can't pull her own weight. Rosalie Cullen is just another lovely face in a crowd, so beautiful and cold and hard and unbreakable.

Rosalie Cullen does not look in the mirror anymore.

A goddess amongst immortals, she feels her life blur until it's all the same. Until nothing stands out at her anymore.

No goddess cared for love. Nor for friendship or other mundane things. Rosalie Cullen had always been different. She longed for everything she could never have. She longed for natural beauty and a smile that warmed her cheeks and those royal blue eyes so befitting a queen. She longed for the soft pink flesh of the child she would never have.

Could never have.

Rosalie Cullen was lonely.

* * *

><p><em>Rose? Rosie baby? Come here darling, <em>make me happy_._

Sometimes, she heard his voice in her head. Whispering to her. Taunting her. Beating her until she's gone, gone, gone and only floating.

_Rose_?

Rosalie Cullen screams at night. Because she can no longer sleep. She can no longer dream. She can no longer feel the wetness on her cheek and feel the –_thump thump_- of her pulse.

There's nothing for her to think of when it's cold and lonely. Nothing but- _Rosie baby? _

She pictures it in her mind sometimes. Pictures baring her fangs and sinking them into his neck. Deep, succulent, juicy and sweet. Maybe his blood will be thick. Maybe his blood will trickle down her throat, quenching her thirst and dying her eyes a bright red. She can see herself licking the crimson red liquid off his mangled neck. Licking it drop after drop after drop after she steals everything he stole away from her.

And how he'd screams and beg (_just like she did, her mind whispers_) and she'd never stop until he's but a husk of a man. Nothing more than a monster. A demon. An abomination.

She'd take away his future too.

But then she thinks of how her eyes would shine red for him. How her throat would feel cool and tender. How she feel full, feel ecstatic, feel the elation and joy as if swallowing a favoured snack. And it'd be all because of him.

Rosalie Cullen screams then.

She wants no part of him inside her. Sloshing around, filling her to the brim. She wants nothing of it.

Nothing.

Instead, she thinks of how she'd snap his neck. Snap his spine. Break his bones. Stomp on his body. She'd destroy him without spilling a single drop of blood. Feel the ligaments stretch and stretch until they snap. Feel the bones crackle as they crumble and pop. She'd take every muscle and tear it. Take an iron and _burn_ him. _Burn him in hell_.

She'd take his head and turn his brain to jelly. She'd sprinkle salt onto his opened eyes. Pour vinegar in his ears. Fill his lungs with water and laugh at how he'd struggle to breath. She'd hang him upside down and watch his blood drip down, down, down. She'd grab his neck and squeeze the life out of him. Take his arms and legs and bend them until he _screams _and she'd never stop. Never

Or maybe she'd break his limbs and lock him in a bank vault. Let him be surrounded by the cash he so wanted. Put a bowl of tender lamb (_juicy, young lamb, so helpless, like nothing beneath your feet) _just beyond the reach of his broken and twitching limbs. Let him writhe and squirm for the money, for the food, for the things he took away from her. She'd watch him then. She'd taunt him. Just like he stood over her that day.

Perhaps she could throw him in a pit and bury him alive. It'd be amusing to hear how the dirt clogged up his nostrils and the _snap snap_ of rock on bone. And how he'd screech and yell only to use up all his oxygen. Better yet, she'd put him in a coffin and then dig out the corpse and stare at the bloodied fingernails (she'd hold her breath) and torn up velvet.

Or how she could string him up and hang him. Hear his neck snap, see his head loll and see how his bloated tongue would hang out. How he'd be stripped bare, pathetic.

Maybe she'd just throw him into the streets. He'd sooner throw away his wallet then know how to defend himself.

Or pump poison into his veins and watch him vomit out his guts and watch his cold and clammy hand fall and how his heart –_thud thuds-_ and stutters and stops.

Or snap off his arms and his legs and _cauterize_ the wounds and watch him slump and die alone all crippled with no one wanting him.

Or steal his eyes and steal his tongue and force him to beg for food, beg for money, beg for his _life._

Rosalie Cullen could wish for dreams all day.

* * *

><p>When she decides to actually do it, it's hard for her to decide what exactly she wants.<p>

Theatrics were always fun, she decides.

So she steals a wedding dress, inwardly laughing at how ironic it is. Donning the white gown, Rosalie Cullen stares into the mirror(_mirror on the _wall) and cackles at the mad look in her crimson, crimson eyes.

-_the fairest one of all?-_

He doesn't scream. He doesn't beg.

But somehow, it's better this way. Instead, he cowers in a little ball on the ground, rocking back and forth and shaking like a leaf.

_Rose? Rosie baby?_ He whimpers.

Rosalie Cullen stares down at him, seeing him for the scum he is. The rest of his _friends_ lie in a heap on the ground, forgotten; _dealt with_. Rosalie Cullen steps over their prone bodies, holds up her bouquet of crimson red roses and stares down at her _fiancé._

_Rose_?

She laughs then and throws the thorny roses in his face.

_snap_

_snap_

_Rose?_

…_rose?_

_snap_

_rip_

_rose…_

_ROSE!_

* * *

><p>She doesn't feel much better.<p>

When a goddess comes across mortals, what does she do? Does she cast them aside like the vulnerable creatures they are?

Or does she choose salvation and lends a hand?

On that day where she met her one true love, Rosalie Cullen chose salvation.

* * *

><p>Emmett's no one special. But it's precisely the way he's sodifferent and plain that she loves him. Emmett didn't care about money or pretty ladies to hold on his arm. Emmett cared about her.<p>

Rosalie Cullen feels a little bit better when she's with Emmett. Not by much. Just a little bit.

Because every time she's with him, she can't help comparing him with her fiancé (_and he'd never stop being her fiancé. Never. Not with eternity stretching far beyond her and a feeling she'd couldn't explain)_

How the same look was on his face when he gazed at her, as if she was the most beautiful thing on Earth. As if she was an angel. As if she was a goddess carved of love and sculpted from tender kisses. As if she was the moonlight herself, come down to take a stroll. Rosalie Hale used to love that look, Rosalie Cullen hates it with a fiery passion.

Instead, when Emmett gives her that look, she pushes him down and kisses him. So he'd stop staring.

And whenever Emmett would take her hand, he'd take it like it was made of the finest china. As if her hand was made of the same flesh that it used to be. Emmett held her so gently; like he'd crush her if he made the slightest move. Her fiancé used to hold her like that. Rosalie Hale had looked down upon it, after all, she was a goddess, and she didn't break. Rosalie Cullen welcomed it, letting him treat her like a porcelain doll, if only to pretend.

_Pretend, a part of her whispers, it's only pretend._

* * *

><p><em>Rose<em>, he'd whisper to her at night. _Rose, I love you_.

She'd turn around and press her lips to his again and again and again. If only to stop pretending. If only to stop hearing him say her name.

_Rose._

Sometimes, Rosalie Cullen wonders how Rosalie Hale ever loved her fiancé. How she had ever been so naïve to think that he'd love her and cherish her. Sometimes, Rosalie Cullen looks into the mirror and tells herself that she was stupid, ignorant, that it was _her fault_.

But then, she remembers and everything is so blurred together, Rosalie isn't quite sure what to think.

Because Rosalie Hale knew what her fiancé was like. How he would bring her flowers every day. How he'd whisper in her ear with the same tenderness Emmett did (_more, whispers her traitorous mind, more_). And whenever he said _Rose_ that way. She'd just melt with joy.

Rosalie Hale remembered what it was like to love.

And Rosalie Cullen didn't.

* * *

><p>What does a goddess do when she comes across a mortal?<p>

Does she give him to his whims and fancies to gain his love?

Or does she scorn and yell and cast him into the deepest recesses of hell?

Rosalie Cullen is quite sure of what she would pick. She isn't quite sure when she went from longing for humanity to loathing it. She isn't quite sure why, but she remembers how the _human_ side of her would scream out for her fiancé in the dark of the night and how she'd sigh his name.

Rosalie Hale had been the beautiful daughter of a rich and lucky man. She had been about to marry her Prince Charming and one true love to become his queen. Rosalie Hale was the happiest woman on earth.

But when her world shattered, Rosalie Hale was trapped in a cycle of vengeance and hate and loathing. Rosalie Hale ceased to exist.

Rosalie Cullen knew what she had to do.

* * *

><p>Sometimes, Rosalie Cullen still wishes. She wishes she hadn't killed him so easily. She wishes she could have tasted his blood.<p>

She wishes she had never been born but it still doesn't satisfy her.

So what does a goddess do when she wants something, but cannot get it?

Rosalie Hale dreams that he'd still call out her name. And that he'd still bring her those delicate flowers and caress her cheek like she's the only one who matters. Rosalie dreams that he'd bring her home one day and her father would be proud and her mother would be proud and her family would stay lucky. And they'd have had a beautiful little boy, who'd be his mama's darling angel and his father's pride and joy.

Rosalie dreams of a future she never had.

Yet Rosalie Cullen dreams of blood and crimson and roses. How she'd gauge out his eyes that dared run over her body. How she'd stab him with her thorns and make blood run from his eyes his mouth his nose. How she'd tear off his limps and sharpen his bones and stab him through the heart.

And then, Rosalie, just Rosalie, would dream that he'd still be there. Barely standing, staggering, and dripping that crimson red blood everywhere. And he'd turn his stained lips to her and whisper, _Rose, why?_

And Rosalie would touch cold hard fingers to his bleeding body. She'd touch him in his wounds and slowly stitch him back together. Touch his blind eyes; tuck strings of hair behind his bloody ear. Rosalie would rub his blood into her granite skin and lick the pain away from his trembling frame.

She'd pull him close.

Because Rosalie still loved him. Rosalie inexplicably still loved the monster that was her fiancé.

And so, Rosalie would press cold lips to his broken ones. And maybe, just maybe, she'd feel complete. Because Rosalie was a monster too (_cold, hard, dangerous dead, she wasn't a goddess, was she?)_ and finally, finally, _finally_, they'd match.

_Rose, come here. Make me happy. I love you._

_I love you too, _

…_royce_

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><p><strong>AN: **So, what did you guys think?


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